Stung by fate
by TashimiaAuthor
Summary: The story of a small sword, so unlikely to be known, but with a story no one would ever suspect. The story twists and Winds in between the story of a Storyteller and an elf in the time of the beginning of the lord of the rings, and the stories he tells, of the long ages of middle-earth and the sword who has made it's road through them. This is the story of Sting.
1. First words The legend

First words: the legend.

_'About Hobbits.' _

_One might start a story using these words, a great story crossing ages and time, a book collecting dust on a shelf till new hands pick it up. _

_But this story is not meant for written books and glorified songs, and it would not be proper to start it as such. Hobbits are but a small part of this story, in fact only appearing at the very end of it, and I will not tell you of them. There is a time, for the hobbits' glory and it is not now. So I will not speak of them. Instead I will tell you the story of a powerful forgotten past, a story only few remembers and none knows to tell. A story, hidden by time, and the mists of death. _

_This is the story of a sword and it's wielders. But first of all, this is just another lost story from Middle-earth. _

_Long ago in the first age, in the city of Gondolin, the elves forged mighty swords to present to their kings and lords. Glamdring, Orchist, Narcil and many others. But few survived the fall of the ancient city and fewer is remembered for what they were._

_This is the story of such a sword. _

_A true story. A long story. A forgotten story._

_Once there was two elven smiths, twins in fact. One was a young woman who had the finest sense of imbuing her weapons with magic and beauty, whereas her brother was a master of making them strong and able to hold for all eternity with edges never dulling. Their names were lost, before time took them. Only they themselves knew them, and in all history they are only known as the twins, brother and sister. _

_This was the smiths that forged Glamdring to their king, Turgon, before the fall of Gondolin. This was also the smiths that forged Glamdring's mate, Orchist, and the swords Neufeer and Matrien. _

_Only once did they fail, creating a sword too short to be of any use in this era where a blade was a man's power, as large as he could carry it. Only once did they fail, and it cost one his mind, and the other her life. _

_It is said that one night the sister woke up, having dreamt of a hundredth perils and fore-visions of death, destruction and evil. She woke her brother and persuaded him to join her in the making of a sword, so magical that it would be the end of all the terrors she'd seen in her nightmare. She said that it should be able to pierce the evil that not even Orchist could cut or Glamdring shine light on. It should be a sword more powerful than both of them. A sword of fate._

_For many days they worked on the sword and the brother always confused by his sister's directions. He'd assumed that she'd want a sword even bigger than Neufeer, their largest sword, so big that even a full grown man had trouble lifting it. Instead she told him to make it as short as a dagger, but formed as a sword so that even the smallest creatures could use it. When he finished his work on it, the strong blade couldn't be broken or scratched, so strong had he made the steel when he forged it. His sister now took over the last part of the making of the sword. She forged the last bit and wove detailed magic symbols into the hilt with magic silver threads. At the end she bound it with black leather, enchanted to hold for the longest of times, and then she started chanting the true magic that she'd imbue the sword with. A magic that even her brother did not know, nor understand._

_When her brother watched her work, his terror and worry grew as quickly and terrible as a forest fire, for her glow of immortality was fading, disappearing into the sword and causing the flame of her life to wither and fade. He tried to stop her from creating that which she was giving her life for, but nothing helped. She would not listen, told him that the sword would do her no harm, and she continued chanting and working the ancient magic that were the legacy of the elves._

_When her brother saw that she was about to give up the last bit of her light, he tore the sword from her and threw it into a corner of the room. She gasped, looked at him, and after her lips formed a single word, fool, she fell to the ground. And he was a fool, for she'd only meant to mark the sword with her immortal light so that it would hold even longer. That could only be done by giving up the light to the sword and then accept it back when it was done, but when her brother broke her connection with the sword he'd ruined that chance, causing her death. _

_That was the last sword ever made by the twins. _

_The brother is said to have gone mad, murmuring his sister's name, calling the sword by it and from then on he seemed possessed by the idea that he had to follow her. One day a traveller came by, one said to have loved the dead elf-smith, and the brother left the sword with him. No one knows what happened with the sword, the traveller or even the brother, but not too many hundreds of years passed before the fall of the great elven king, Turgon._

_This is mostly legend, and cannot be proven true, seeing as this part of the story only surfaced many years after a hobbit picked it up from the cave of three trolls. But there is no doubt that it is made by the same hands that made Glamdring and Orchist, and that it originates from Gondolin in the first age. _

_I know for certain that it left the city, perhaps with this stranger mentioned in the legend, and that it was not in the city of Gondolin when it fell. Nor was it anywhere obvious when the first age ended, and the second began. _

_Actually this particular sword seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth, only to be rediscovered many times, under different names. This is why I've decided to find all the stories of such an elven sword as this legend describe and tell you it's story. You know as much about it's beginning as I, and I dare tell you that at the end of this story it will find itself in the hands of three trolls. But I wonder, do you dare try and name this blade? This seeming imperfection, that will become one of the mightiest weapons of all, only suitable for the bravest heroes of all? _

_Well, sit down, enjoy my tale, and I might entertain you with the whole story. _

_The story of a sword. A story with no real end. _

_A story of names._


	2. Chp 1 The storyteller and the protector

Chapter 1

The storyteller and the protector

He was not the kind of man that people noticed immediately when they entered the tavern. He was old, his face almost hidden by his large, greyish beard and his clothes fit with the colours in the room. On the other hand, anyone who had been there for more than ten minutes had already observed him carefully, for if one first looked at him for real, he was not the kind of man you simply overlooked again. It might sound like a contradiction, but this was how people reacted to him. Not anyone noticeable at the first glance, but clearly someone to be aware of if you took the time to loo at him.

He had a broad back and his muscles were well-trained. They had to be for an old man to handle travelling alone. And those well defines muscles made the sword at his side seem even more deadly than its fine craftsmanship already suggested it to be, long and slim as it was, although hidden in its sheath. He was dressed as any other traveller would be, a large brown cloak over his shoulders, warm practical trousers and a large reddish shirt that did not match the markings of age on his face. In his hands were a grand mug of beer, already more than half-empty.

A couple of men had gathered around him, listening as he told the tale of a pair of elven twins, who had supposedly forged a sword the size of a large knife, or a dagger, resulting in one going mad and the other dying. People shook their heads. It had been a long time since anyone had seen elves in this city, and some had ceased to believe in their existence. They have died out, they would say, or left middle-earth, would others and wiser say. However, the traveller knew that it was not true. Elves were still in middle-earth, although rarer.

"So," he said, his voice sounding old, but filled with life. "Now you know how it _might _have been created, but remember, it is but a legend. The rest I know almost for certain, as it is stories some of you might have grown with." He blinked his right eye at them, as if they shared a secret. "But do indulge me and listen to an old man. One must have something to live from in these hard times."

The men got the hint and with some unsatisfied mumbling and grumbling, they put down a couple of coins on the table. The old man was not late to put them in his pocket, knowing that they only appeared unsatisfied because of the hard times and not because he wished payment.

Orcs had been scurrying around lately, attacking cities and burning farms far from the guard of the king. For some reason, king Theoden had not done anything to stop it yet, and the Rohirrin was scattered, unable to save all that needed to be saved. Some said that a snake had taken to the king, poisoning his mind and blurring his thoughts.

The old mad took a deep breath and a draw of his mug. Then he smiled at the men around him.

"Well then, the next time the sword seems to have appeared, or at least the first time we can be sure of, is around the beginning of the second age, in company with the drawf king Morien and his many many sons..."

…

"...One day Morien's youngest son, the dwarf known as Aldur Moriasson, came home with an elven sword, so short that it was barely the length of his arm. His brothers laughed at him, asking how he'd want to play with such a little toothpick, but he didn't care. It suited him better to protect, than the longer swords the others used to attack. Aldur was wise, you see, for he did not care for glory, but for the people.

His father heard his wise words and saved them in his thoughts for when need' be. Sadly that moment came too soon when the orcs attacked. The attack came out of nowhere and when the other sons ran to fight, Morien called his youngest son to him and told him to lead a small group of great warriors through the secret tunnels to fall the orcs in the back and to lead the people to the outer tunnels, so that they'd escape if worse became the worst. Their only job was to protect each other and try to fool the orcs into leaving or, if they didn't succeed, make sure that their people survived. Morien knew that the warriors, including himself and the rest of his sons, wouldn't survive, but still he sent his youngest son away. Morien also knew that Aldur was the most likely to do everything in his power to protect the people, instead of seeking revenge.

Aldur grabbed his little sword and quickly and calmly he collected the best of the warriors he knew. Then they headed down the tunnels, getting ready to fight and try to secure the victory, for Aldur did not care for war and tactics, so he'd believed his dad when he said they might be able to fool the orcs into fleeing if they attacked from the back. But he also did the rest of what his father had told him and made sure that the people followed them to the outer tunnels so that they may escape if it all went wrong. The orcs didn't notice them, for they were too occupied fighting Aldur's brothers.

The brothers were strong warriors that kept the orcs at bay for a long time. Their backs were strong and protected by the others, for they all shared the same blood and the same father, so they knew to stay together as a stronghold for the warriors to fight of the orcs.

In fact, the brothers held of the orcs for such a long time that Aldur managed to get the people out to the tunnels by the exit, hidden so that the orcs wouldn't find them if they fled. He and his warriors attacked the rear of the enemy without hesitation and with great bravery, for they knew that their king and the princes wouldn't survive if they couldn't save them.

The killed as many orcs as they could, before retreating into the dark tunnels before attacking again. The orcs had no idea how many warriors were at their back, and panic started to spread among them as roars of pain and the smell of blood filled the tunnels of Moria.

Aldur kept attacking and fighting together with his men, even if they were no more than twenty in total. He proved to be the deadliest of them all, the mass of orcs so thick that large swords weren't of much use. But he stung and cut, finding openings that some of the others couldn't do anything about with their great and heavy war-hammers and axes. It was his advantage that the fight turned out to be very close range, for he was able to fight that way. If there had been more space, his sword would have been too small to do much good, but this was the ideal situation for him. The blue light of his elven blade made the orcs shrink in fear.

Suddenly everything seemed to go wrong and in a moment it seemed that all were lost. To his right, Aldur's best friend went down, hit by the sword of a lucky orc. Through the loud noise of fighting and the roaring orcs, he could hear the horns proclaiming the king's death and he knew then, that his brothers would also be lost. The next moment the orcs moved against them, cutting off their escape and the exit, capturing the rest of the people.

But Aldur stood strong. He stepped over his friend, and protected him from the orcs. His men gathered behind him, and then they stood there, cutting down any orc that came too close. Aldur's sword seemed like an angry wasp, stinging everyone foolish enough to threat near him.

Then, when one of his men lifted his friend, he started walking through the masses of orcs, cutting them down were they stood, and moving to the tunnel were his people hid. No doubt were in his voice, face or movements, as he told them to follow him, and they did, for they trusted him.

He continued to cut down the orcs as he walked. Behind him came his warriors, and behind them came his people and then again warriors. He made sure that as many escaped as possibly and it is said that they only lost ten out of hundreds of dwarves, an achievement so great that many dwarves named their sons after him in the future.

The fight was hard, almost impossible, but the dwarves succeeded in escaping the caves and halls they'd spend thousands of years building. Aldur led them to another mountain, one that stood alone in a ring of other mountains. He told them that this should be their fortress and they started building again. Here they started to live under the reign of their king, Aldur the protector.

Time went by and the dwarves prospered under the mountain, for the ground was rich on metals and precious stones. In time, Aldur had two sons of his own, Dirrir, the oldest, and Morion. Dirrir was content with the life in their halls and happy to be the heir of such a fine mountain. Morion, on the other hand, wanted more. He longed to see the halls where his grandfather had ruled and felt that his dad had given up too fast. Somehow he believed that the dwarven warriors might still be alive and that they might have driven the orcs from the mountain after Aldur escaped with the people.

Aldur told his son the foolishness of his thoughts, but little did it help. The idea had carved itself into the mind of his youngest, and one night he stole the magic sword of his father and ran away with it, disappearing forever from Aldur's halls. Aldur never knew what happened to his son, but stayed strong in the belief that the sword would protect him and guide him. That it would lead him to his fate."

...

The old man ended his tale at that, taking another dip of his mug. Foam from the beer lingered in his beard when he laughed out loud. "Funny ain't it? A man's believe in the fruit of his loins. The son of one king fled the mountain to protect the people, only to have his own son turn into a thief and disappear in the night!"

The men around him though him mad, but they'd enjoyed his story and others had joined them. It was still only early evening and there was a long time till they had to return home to their wives.

"What happened to the dwarf then? Mori or Moron or what his name was?" One of them asked the old storyteller.

He grinned at them. "That's the next part of the story!" He said. Then he motioned a servant girl for a refill and looked around the men. "I personally had to go through a lot to discover it, as the details aren't exactly clear and the witnesses few. But still, I am of the belief that a story has to be told, with all it's parts and bits."

He scratched his beard, as if he was thinking over the details of the next part, and nodded gratefully to the servant girl who poured beer in his empty mug. He paid her a coin before she left.

She smiled. It wasn't often, in these times, that men were polite enough not to pet her behind when she served and it could make her day if there was move than one who'd let it be that evening. Sighing she pinched the hand of another man who wasn't quite as gallant. Then she returned to the safety of the bar-desk, where she could have her well-shaped buttocks to herself.


	3. Chp 2 The traveller and the king of the

Chapter 2

The traveller and the king of the mountain

The storyteller sent the man who'd grabbed at the servant girl a sour look before shrugging. It wasn't really his business and she seemed to be used to it, practised as she was at pinching. At the short expression of pain in the man's face, he decided that it was a good thing that he hadn't tried pinching her.

He smiled and continued telling the story. He knew as well as the men around him, that his audience would be there at least an hour more, and that there would be more money to collect at this tavern before he continued his travelling. With this thought he started talking again.

"Morion travelled far, until he reached the mountains his people had left so many years ago. Of course he wasn't stupid, for by the time he reached them he'd convinced others to join him and doing so would have taken quite a bit of charisma." He started out, leaning back in his chair, relaxing while talking.

"There was Nunifar, the dwarf known as Smasher because of his great war-hammer and Loldoin another dwarf..."

…

"...They seem to have joined him somewhere along the road, but where I do not know. But they soon became friends and Morion promised them gold and silver and jewels if they found any in the old halls that were their goal. He felt like he'd known them his whole life, that strongly did they become attached to each other. I have no doubt that they fought quite a lot and overcame many ordeals on their travels.

When they reached the mountain, Morion wanted to go straight in the front door, but Loldoin stopped him. Even if Morion believed that the dwarven warriors had driven the orcs away, it was still wise to show precaution. So they searched till they found a small and secret tunnel instead, something that saved their lives.

For the orcs had taken over the mountain, killing all those that did not flee with Aldur. The great halls had been filled with orcs and goblins filled the tunnels. It was a paradise for them, for there were no sun to haunt them, even in the day time.

The orcs didn't notice the dwarves, although they might have if they weren't busy celebrating something. The dwarves shuddered at their horrid singing and the even more horrid words that their singing consisted of.

Eat it whole,

Eat it half

Eat it all

Share to none

Eat, eat, eat the dwarf.

Eat some more

Eat some less

Eat your share

And make a mess

Eat, eat, eat the dwarf!

From their song and conversations, the dwarves gathered that the orcs had newly captured another group of adventures, and that they were now holding a feast with dwarf the menu. They'd simply eat their captives after torturing them. An orc, a great big one I might say, started laughing about how he wanted the pointy-eared elf. That surprised Morion and the others, for it was not often that an elf went underground, and even rarer that one should travel with dwarves.

Being very careful they continued on into the tunnels, Loldoin, the oldest of the three, led the way while he reminded them that he had been one of those few who escaped by himself so many years ago. He'd become lost in the tunnels, even though he'd lived there his whole life, and it was then he'd found the secret entrance, or in that case, exit.

Soon they reached the great hall where the last dwarf king of the mountain had once ruled from. Morion's grandfather's throne still stood strong in the middle, but on top of it sat an orc so foul that Loldoin turned his head as to not throw up at the sight.

The hall was filled with goblins and orcs, all singing and taunting their prisoners, five dwarves and an elf, while getting ready to kill and eat them. There was no fire anywhere, so it was obvious that the food would be served raw.

The dwarves, although they wanted to help the poor fellows who'd been captured, didn't know what to do. The only thing they could think of was a direct attack, and that was pure foolishness. So instead they bid their time, waiting to see how it would all turn out. Loldoin did, however, argue that they left for it would be too much for him to see others get eaten. Morion just said that it was only right to bring witness to their demise, as to show them a last honour.

The elf, dark haired and beautiful, started to mock the giant orc that seemed to be the new king of the mountain. He taunted him by claiming that the dwarves must have left the mountain for him, taking pity on his weakness and his small mind. The orc, who had a temper as foul as his face, went into a rage. He jumped up, yelled to the others not to touch the elf and swore that he would kill the elf himself.

The elf, manacled and unable to move freely, just smiled in a challenging kind of way when the orc marched towards him. To be sure, it was better to die fighting, than to just give up.

Morion was impressed with the elf's resolve, and quick as a snake,he whistled and threw his blade so that the elf may catch it. The elf, hearing the whistle, turned just in time to clumsily catch the sword that seemed to come from nowhere. (Nunifar had pushed Morion to the ground while cursing him silently, and Loldoin had hidden behind a rock.)

The orc kind who had been throwing himself forwards, as to cut down the elf with his large blade, had no means of defending when the elf gracefully stepped forward and skewered him with the dagger sized sword. Yet another king of the mountain fell and died.

Now the other orcs were filled with anger and madness, as they ran forward to kill their prisoners. At this moment Morion, Nunifar and Loldoin also entered the battleground, knowing that they would have little chance to escape since Morion had already revealed their presence.

Nunifar smashed one orc after the other, breaking skulls and bones, almost displaying a madness within as a great grin spread on his face. Loldoin on the other hand, threw his sword to one of the captured dwarves, only to grab his crossbow and starting to shoot down the orcs trying to kill them. Morion grabbed the sword of a dead orc, and started cutting down enemies, while he together with Nunifar and Loldoin, (who also seemed to have donned one of the orcs' weapons) made their way over to the place where the elf and the dwarves fought for their lives.

Reaching them, Nunifar broke their chains with his hammer, being careful not to hit their arms and legs while doing so, while Morion and Loldoin kept the orcs at bay, with the help of the already freed dwarf and the elf who was still waiting to be released from the chains. As soon as the last one was freed, they fled. There was no reason to stay in the middle of an orc infested mountain.

As they ran, Loldoin got cut down, but there was nothing they could do for him. He died almost instantly in the mountain where he was born. But that had also been his wish, for ever since he escaped he had only longed to go back.

They continued running, although they did not know the way out. They had all relied on Loldoin's knowledge of the tunnels. Even though they managed to escape the orcs, it was only to find themselves completely lost and in danger of being found again and then killed."

…

The old man halted his tale, taking another sip of his mug. Something felt odd, like someone was watching him. No. Rather than someone, it seemed to be _something _that was watching him. He was aware of the men around him and most of the others in tavern, but something about the feeling of being watched was different from the other onlookers.

He glanced around, noting a drunk man watching him and some other people who was listening without being seated at his table or paying. He couldn't do anything about that as it was normal and it didn't annoy him.

Someone in a shadowy corner caught his eyes. A traveller, he thought, much like himself, seemed to be the one from whom the feeling came. But he couldn't determine anything, for a dark grey coat covered the travellers head and body. He couldn't see any weapons or anything else, except the mug in front of the man. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind. Like with the ones who was listening without paying, there wasn't anything he could do to prevent it. Instead he just continued his story.

…

"I don't know for how long they were trapped in the tunnels, but they found their way back to the secret entrance and got out just as the sun rose. Luck saved them a second time as they walked down the mountain and away, for the orcs guards could not follow them in the light.

They discussed what they'd need to do from then on and in doing so they accepted that Morion and Nunifar was a part of the larger group of dwarves. The elf had already made it clear that he'd travel back to his people to see his family for the first time in many years. Maybe they'd forgive him for spending so much time with dwarves. Although elves didn't really hate dwarves, they still didn't like them and the feeling was mutual.

Before he left them he'd tried to give Morion the sword back, but Morion had refused it. He thought that such a sword was meant to protect and not for silly quests and foolish adventures, and therefore would be of more use to the elf than to himself.

The elf asked him for the name of the sword, and Morion answered without hesitation, naming it Protector, as if in honour of his father who he now knew had always been true. It seemed only fitting, he thought, for the sword wasn't meant for killing, but for protecting life and letting those who needed it protect what was them dear.

The elf went to the other elves and lived there.

Morion and the other dwarves set of on another adventure, this time a little better planned, and it should be many years before the sword surfaced again."

…

The old man halted his speech, to have the servant girl fill his mug again. It was his fourth mug, and it was by no means small, but he didn't seem affected at all. His voice wasn't slurred nor was his words confused and in disarray.

The traveller in the corner noted all this and smiled a secretive smile.

The old man glanced at him again slurping his beer and grinning at the men around him. "I think it's getting late." He said and the men nodded.

Many of the others had left the tavern already and there was little left besides those around his table. He stood up, swaying a little and wrinkling his nose. "And I think I've had enough." He continued, this time sounding a little slurred.

The men complimented him for his story and gave him some more coins, which he quickly hid away from sight, as to avoid thieves. Then he walked to the bar, placing his mug there and smiling at the servant girl as the men left the tavern. One of them complained about his wife on his way out and the old man and the girl shared a look of humour at the words.

"I don't think he'll be warm tonight if his wife was to know he said that." The storyteller said and grinned. She shook her head, smiling back. He nodded towards a bottle of red wine. "Can I buy a glass or two from that?" He asked and put down the money for the whole bottle.

"Of course." She said and gave him the bottle. Because he seemed like sort of a fine man she also put down an expensive glass. "You can take it to you room, just return the glass tomorrow."

He smiled and nodded, taking both things into his hands before walking up the stairs to his rented room. All the while he hummed a dancing tune that was probably forgotten by the young and only a memory for the old.


	4. Chp 3 The guest and the ice giant

Chapter 3

The guest and the ice giant

The storyteller was sitting in a large stuffed chair enjoying the wine when someone knocked on his door. He wasn't surprised. He'd suspected that the traveller would seek him out and he wasn't disappointed when he opened the door to find him standing there, still covered by the dark greyish cloak.

"Can I help you?" The storyteller asked, trying to decipher what the man wanted. The stranger didn't answer, but moved his hand as if telling the storyteller to invite him in to the room.

The storyteller stepped aside and let the stranger enter through the door. He closed the door behind him, feeling that the traveller didn't want others to hear them speak. Again he wondered who the stranger was and why he had come to his room and not just addressed him in the hall below.

The stranger in the cloak went to the windows and pulled the covers closed before turning to the storyteller again. He lifted his hands, the storyteller noted how slim and small they seemed, and then he removed his hood. And revealed that _he_ was in fact a _she_. The storyteller lifted an eyebrow in surprise. He'd been certain that it had been a man underneath the cloak, but now when she took off the woven cloth, he realised just how wrong he'd been.

The elven woman was tall and slim, her limbs elegantly formed and her body almost glowing with sensuality and beauty. Her hair was long and raven, reaching for her buttocks and her catlike eyes were fixed upon him. She was dressed in brown and white colours, pants, shirt, leather belt and a scale armour covering her chest.

"I have been searching for you." She said. "For your knowledge."

The storyteller shrugged. "I know many things." He told her. "But not your name." He looked at her again, from top to bottom, wondering how he could have ever thought her a man.

She got the hint and smiled. "Ydrasiél. Daughter of the oak, seeker of the sword."

He got a thoughtful look in his eyes. "Seeker of the sword?" There was a deep mistrust in his voice. "Shouldn't the elves already have knowledge of who found the sword? Wasn't Elrond aware of the time it passed his lands?"

The she-elf nodded and smiled. "But that is not the sword I seek. Such a tiny sword, a weapon of protection as it is, I feel no need for." She used her hand to gently remove a strand of hair from her eyes. "I am seeking a sword that is said to have been lost at Nírnaeth Arnoediad."

Sadness filled the storyteller's eyes. "The battle of unnumbered tears." He looked away from her, walked and sat down in the chair. He reached out and emptied the glass, letting the red wine wash the words back down his throat. "A black day for your people."

She walked to sit in another chair across from his own, taking the bottle and downing half of it in a single mouthful. "Yes." She agreed. "But that is a very long time ago. Thousands of years as it is, more than one age."

"Yes." He said. "A very long time ago and a great deal of great wars away, forgotten by all but scholars and elves." He took the bottle from her, drinking directly from it and making sure it was out of her reach. It had been expensive and he didn't like how much that had already disappeared. "Which sword do you seek then?" He asked her. This time he wondered about her age. Had she been there at the battle of unnumbered tears? Or were she younger, maybe even from the third age?

"I seek a sword that were made by the elven twins. I seek Neufeer, mate to Matrien." She said. "I'm almost sure that you have heard of it on your travels and your search for stories about the small one."

The storyteller nodded. "I have heard of it, but the stories aren't fresh in my mind, I admit that." He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment, before looking at her again. "I think that the last I heard of it was in the little mountain village at the edge of Gondor. They have a legend of the silver sword used to slay Orugrá, the ice giant."

"Are you sure it's the right sword?" She asked. "Neufeer?"

The storyteller nodded. "Yes." He said. "It has been described as a long, slim, silver blade with frosty markings on it's sides. It glows blue when orcs are near, and is no doubt, elven forged."

"Tell me the name of the village." She said. "And the legend."

He shrugged. "I can't recall the name, but I wager I'd recognize the area if I came past it." He said. "As for the village it disappeared twenty years ago when Orugrá's son had a fit of rage."

Ydrasiél sighed. "The legend then? You remember it, right?"

He nodded. "I think I recall the details." He took another sip of his wine before starting the tale, his eyes seeming vacant, as if he himself had travelled away to the faraway happenings.

"It all started with the coming of the giant Orugrá..."

…

"He was tall as a mountain and cold as the snow on the top of it. It's said that his breath could freeze even the warmest fire and cool the earth itself so that all was covered by snow and ice. He is said to have been created by the unfortunate meeting and falling in love of a female ice-troll and a male stone-giant. His mother split open at his birth, and as such he came into the world at the same time she left it.

He roamed the mountains for ages, killing and eating everything and everyone he met. In the beginning it was mostly little animals, like squirrels and foxes, but soon he also ate mountain lions, orcs and humans. And he grew. He grew from the size of a young troll to the size of a small mountain, taking more after the size of his giant father than his frosty mother.

The people in the village at the roots of the mountain got angry. At first it was their children that disappeared from the forest. Then their men and women. In the end they didn't dare to leave their houses for fear of the giant and they starved for all prey had fled the woods.

One day a man came to the town carrying a sword so large that none of the men from the village could lift it. It was a sword forged for elves, but carried by man. It is said to have caused wonder at first, that the blade seemed frozen and covered in frosty shapes of flowers. None believed that a weapon of cold could be any help against the giant.

But they let the man go into the woods and they let him ready himself as he wanted, bathing, eating and lighting his fire so that he could keep warm came night. He set op ropes between the trees, leaving only one place free. Then he lit fires all around along the ropes, but still so far from them that the ropes would not be visible in the dark.

Then he wandered into the dark, searching for the coldest place, following the northern wind by going up against it. There he found what he had earlier thought to be a mountain, covered by snow, but that he now saw had the shapes, if not the size, of a man. There was a head, a torso, two arms and powerful legs that seemed to be made of hard rock.

"Are you a troll?" He yelled.

Orugrá looked at him, in an angry manner, mind you, and gave a very troll-like snarl.

"You look like one." The man continued.

This time the giant got to his feet, looking down on the man who was quite small in comparison. A terrifying evil shone in his eyes as he lifted his foot to squash the man who dared insult him.

But the man simply jumped aside and ran back towards the fire and the ropes. The giant who felt very insulted, quickly jumped to follow. And then the chase began. As the giant jumped and ran the earth shook and shuddered at each step. The trees bowed and froze every time he took an heavy breath. But the man ran too fast for the giant and soon he slipped in through the hole in the ropes and ran towards the fire.

The giant sprung to follow him, but his feet got caught by the ropes and he fell, heavy as a mountain and broke trees and rocks below him. Suddenly he was surrounded by the fires that the man had built. The man himself ran around, using one fire to light another until the snow on top of Orugrá's nose started to melt away. The stone seemed to heat and the giant roared in anger and pain from his own rise in temperature.

The giant got to his feet and bowed to catch and crush the man with his hands. With the right one he caught his prey, holding him high with a harmful grin. The man barely succeeded in freeing and holding his sword, but with one mighty swing he planted it in the giant's forehead. The sudden rise and fall in the temperature of the rock made it break and crumble and soon the giant fell to his knees and were gone.

The man rose from the boulders and stones, pushing rocks aside as he reached for the sky. But his legs had been crushed by the giant before he delivered the final stroke.

The villagers found him that morning and grieved at his death. They gave him a hero's burial in the hill below the pieces of Orugrá and above him they rose a shrine to keep them safe from his sons that lived in the mountains. It took two men to place his sword on top of his chest."

…

The storyteller took another sip of the wine before he finished his tale. Ydrasiél didn't say anything for a while.

"Didn't help them much though." She said. "The shrine above his grave."

He shook his head. "Didn't help them at all." He agreed. "Only luck and their own hatred for their father kept his sons away from the village for those hundred years. They had no way of protecting themselves from those giants. Mutations. All those he conceived with the ice-trolls and the stone-giants. All those that continue to kill and rage."

The woman saw the sadness in his eyes, as she had seen the fire when he talked of fighting.

"Can you remember that man's name?" She asked.

He shook his head again. "No." He said. "If I could, I could also tell you the name of the village and the hill, for they named both after him."

She sighed. "Such a long search." She said. "And now I have to search for some damned hill at the edge of Gondor at some godforsaken anonymous mountains."

The storyteller gave out a little laugh.

"Look at it on the bright side, you will not travel alone this time." He said, his voice soothing and warm.

She looked at him, surprise colouring her face. "No?" She asked.

"No." He confirmed.

"For I will travel with you." He tapped his finger at the side of his nose. "I smell a good story, and I do not want to miss out on it."

She smiled at him, her green eyes sparkling.

"So." She said, her voice suddenly melodic. "Who is it I will be travelling with?"

He smiled back at her, his eyes as sparkling as hers, although icy blue.

"You can call me Mordanur."


End file.
